Ferrier of Souls: Master of Tides
by liz3386
Summary: 9 years, 7 months as Captain of the Flying Dutchman. Despite having a reprieve in sight from his eternal duty, a new adventure is brewing for the young captain, one that may tear him away from the woman he loves. Post AWE. Ch 8: The Drowned.
1. Ferrier of Souls: Master of Tides

**Ferrier of Souls: Master of Tides**

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, the Pirates of the Caribbean do not belong to me; the whole franchise belongs to Disney, Ted Elliot, and Terry Rossio. Without intending any copyright infringement for any sort of profit, I am "borrowing" the characters for my little story. Please, please, please don't sue me. Thank you.

**Mythology reference**: Morpheus is the Greek god of dreams.

--

Captain's Log

9 years, 7 months, 23 days, 10 hours

Every day is an eternity without her, but now that eternity has an end in sight.

Eight months. Eight months have passed like a dream. Eight months since my crew and my immortality was last threatened. Eight months and I haven't slept a wink until last night.

It was maddening trying to fight off the slumber, the sand man's grains of sleep. The last time I let my eyes fall closed, Sirens terrorized my ship. Yet, sleep ever remained the seductress until mine eyes shut and my mind left for the world of Morpheus. Such strange visions I had, visions I cannot seem to escape even as I perform my daily eternal duties.

On a battlefield of water, much like a maelstrom of shinning light and foam, I saw warriors fighting valiantly, dying for a cause much bigger than myself. I, myself, commanded a fleet of ships with a single gesture of my hand. People, souls, everything that touched the water heeded my orders. The very waves themselves obeyed my thoughts and all the while my scar burned like a fire poker.

My scar still sears with the residual pain.

Yet, somehow, I could sense with a profound awareness that the love of my life stood waiting on an island, waiting expectantly with a boy at her side. And I couldn't reach her. A barrier held her captive, a barrier I couldn't breach. My undead lungs do not take in oxygen in order to survive, yet I felt a suffocation invading my being every time I reached out for her.

The pain and the illusion were so real that I woke up gasping for air. I am not one who usually lays much stock in dreams, but this was no ordinary dream. This was a nightmare.

This was a nightmare that has since haunted every thought, every moment. Today as I collected three souls to ferry aboard my ship, I saw in their eyes water. In their hair, I felt the wind. As I asked if they feared death, I saw warriors dying and rising and dying again. When they said no, I saw Elizabeth behind that barrier denying me my day on land. Then, as I confirmed that their hands were as cold as ice and they were indeed dead, my scar smoldered in aches. When at last I offered them passage to the land of the dead, I could hardly catch my breath. This was a living nightmare.

If there be a heaven or if there be a hell, I want to know in which realm my vision lies. For it feels too real to merely be a dream. It feels wrong and right and my hands ache to touch something. My heart aches for I cannot determine for the undead life of me whether my hands ache for Elizabeth's cheek or the salted power of the sea.

--

**Author's Note**: So, I guess you could say I decided to a sequel to "Ferrier of Souls". Hope ya'll like it so far and will continue reading. Like its predecessor, this story (as far I know right now) will have more of the aspects ya'll enjoyed in "Ferrier of Souls": grand adventure, epic mythology, and (obviously) captain's logs alternating with third person prose.

Past that, please review, flame, or constructively criticize. ;) You know you want to.


	2. Chapter 2: Crash Course

**Ferrier of Souls: Master of Tides**

**Chapter 2: Crash Course**

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, the Pirates of the Caribbean do not belong to me; the whole franchise belongs to Disney, Ted Elliot, and Terry Rossio. Without intending any copyright infringement for any sort of profit, I am "borrowing" the characters for my little story. Please, please, please don't sue me. Thank you.

--

He stared at his hands for a moment, the briefest and longest moment, not enjoying where his thoughts led. Captain Turner then gently closed his ship's log, which had progressively become more and more like journal over the last few months, before looking out the porthole of his room. While he tried to brush his thoughts and dreams aside, he watched the waves and waited to feel each one break against the side of the Flying Dutchman. A sinking, a rising, a mild crash against the hull. The sea was in a good a shape today, a little choppy, but otherwise not too shabby for sailing purposes. He stretched his hands, popped his knuckles, and set about doing his captainly duties.

As of that moment, high noon on the open, eternal sea, Captain Turner had six souls aboard: five very average, very normal souls and one rather eccentric scholar. The captain even expected to pick up several more souls before nightfall. Something deep inside him just said that there were more small boats and souls drifting out on that open water looking for land, looking for him. They were rising and falling with waves just as the Flying Dutchman was. At least two, maybe three, souls were out in the ocean. Up and down, up and down, another wave crashed against the ship.

--

"Captain! Capt'n!" Mose shouted at Captain Turner as he raced over, interrupting Turner's thoughts. "Capt'n, two more souls on port side, sir."

Turner smirked. He was getting better at predicting the turn of the tides and passenger pickups.

"Bring 'em aboard, Mose."

But as the men tried to collect these souls, to haul them onto the ship, a violent wave crashed into the Flying Dutchman. In fact, in the near decade Captain Turner had sailed on the undead sea he had never felt such a rocking, such a violence from a single wave without it having some beastie making it.

"Take hold, men, and get those passengers in this boat, _now_!" Turner called as he grabbed a bit of railing.

Another fierce surge hit the ship, knocking some men off their feet. "I said _now_, men, not yesterday." For the sooner the passengers were safe, the sooner the crew could go to the riggings, or the tri-canons, depending on whether that wave was natural or supernatural, respectively.

In a mix of knots and soaked rope, two young girls clung to each other with salt water running down their faces. Turner wasn't sure if it was the sea or tears, but either way it made a fire rise in his belly. He rushed towards those hauling the girls and helped pull. One hand over the other, his muscles burned. The ship was hit by yet another hard crash, this time knocking all of them down. Half of the men had let the rope slip through their fingers as they fell hard on the upper deck. The girls screamed. Yet, Turner and Mose held strong onto that rope letting their muscles tear and pull. The girls would not drop; they wouldn't let them.

"Haul men," Turner yelled, "get off your bums and pull this rope!"

They scrambled back up on their feet and grabbed the rope. Hand over fist, each pulled as the girls solemnly clutched at each other and glanced nervously at the crew. Turner could plainly see that they were uncertain if the ship was any better than the mad waves below. "We offer you passage," he grunted. "Safe passage."

The girls gave each other a fleeting look, a momentary glance to assure one another, before nodding somberly. They would trust him for now.

The ship rocked once more from yet another aggressive crash. Fortunately, Turner used the rock to run towards the girls as they swung toward the ship. He grasped each by the hand and pulled them aboard as the ship leveled out. "Welcome aboard the Flying Dutchman, ladies," he grinned charismatically, "You don't happen to fear death, do you?"

--

Once the girls were aboard, the turbulence stopped. The waves were once more just slightly choppy, but fine for sailing purposes. Yet the previous violent shaking from hold to upper deck, shook up some of the other passengers as well as the two girls. In fact, all eight of his passengers were slightly weak at their knees and a tad green behind the ears. Turner brought the two girls a couple blankets and a pot of strong coffee for the rest of his passengers.

"You all will be fine," he reassured them, "haven't lost a passenger yet."

"'Yet' isn't very reassuring, Captain, sir," piped up the curious, old scholar.

"Well, old man, it might not be reassuring to _you_, but I don't plan on losing any of my passengers, call it a sworn oath. And I take my oaths very seriously," Turner handed the blankets to the girls. "I'll do whatever it takes to make sure that we _all_ make port."

"And exactly _where_ is our port, Captain? We aren't exactly…alive, you know. Where could a bunch old souls go?" For as studious as the old gentleman looked, his education was apparently gravely lacking.

Turner filled a cup of coffee for one of the passengers. "All depends on what you believe, really." He handed the cup to a little middle-aged woman with graying temples.

"But…"

"Rest your old bones, old man," Captain Turner interrupted. "Rest your mind. We've all had a bit of a scare there for a moment and now might be a better time for quiet mumblings and gentle reflections than tedious questions. I'm gonna check my ship now for any damages. I'll be back down in an hour or so to check on all ya."

Why did he always have to be the one to pick up the curious ones?

--

Captain Turner looked across the upper deck. Some of the men were checking riggings and sails; others were examining the old wooden planks holding the ship together. But Turner's eyes glazed over them as he searched for a striped shirt and red hair.

"Mose, status report."

The striped shirt one perked up as he heard his name and scratched at his fiery locks. "Well, Capt'n, the hull is a little worse for wear, but no more leaks than usual. What do ya think caused all that crashing 'bout, anyway?"

"Dunno, probably just the sea. She can be a might jealous sometimes." Turner smiled wearily, "But, I want to hear if any crew member thinks otherwise. Don't care if it sounds like poppycock, I wanna know. Understand?"

Mose nodded. He was glad his captain could make light of the situation, but the look in his eyes _was_ a cause for worry. "Aye, aye, Capt'n."

--

When Captain Turner returned to the middle deck to check on his passengers, he found the room silent. His passengers were solemnly staring into their cold cups of coffee. Hardly a drop had been drunk. They were frightened and still a bit sea-sick. Unfortunately, most of these souls had hardly spent a day on the sea in their lives, let alone their undead lives. They didn't understand that the continuing choppiness of the sea was normal, even good considering the previous situation. If knowledge is power and ignorance is bliss, then distraction is just what the doctor ordered for these lost souls.

"Old man," Turner watched as the scholar looked up, annoyed. The captain almost wished the old man had feared death so he could just annoy him for the rest of his eternal sentence. It sure would make the time pass faster. "Old man, why don't ya tell these fine folks a tale from one of those books that you decided to bring into this afterlife?" How exactly the scholar had managed to actually bring the books onboard was still a curious mystery. Normally, passengers only had the clothes on their backs, but this guy…this scholar managed to bring a whole chest of books. Eternity still held its surprises, he supposed.

"These books, boy…"

"Captain."

"These books, Captain, aren't just tall tales or fairy tales. They hold the darkest mysteries of the universe: medicine, science, mathematics, history..."

"History then, _old man_," Turner once again interrupted before mumbling, "Although mythology would be better."

"Myths, sir?" asked one of the normal souls, a lanky man aged about twenty-five. "Why, Captain, if you want legends and tall tales, I got 'em a'plenty."

"What's your name, boy?"

"Sole, sir, Tom Sole."

"Well, Sole," the captain looked around at the faces around him starting to curiously perk up at the sheer entertainment of the personal antics taking place around them. "A story then."

The scholar gruffed at being so easily discarded while Sole cleared his throat. "Well…"

--

Meanwhile as the clouds gathered in the sky above and the men worked to put the ship back into its ordinary ship-shape order, a hand the color of sea foam hung onto the one wooden plank shaken slightly loose from all the violent crashing waves.

--

Author's Note: Dah! Sorry, it took so long to update. I have a 12 page proposal due for class on Thursday, so I'm a tad busy at the moment. Hopefully, I'll have the next chapter up by Monday or so. Anyway, reviews, flames, and/or constructive criticism always welcome. :)

Oh and as for that whole Elizabeth barrier thing from the previous chapter...that'll be answered eventually. Cheers!


	3. Chapter 3: A Myth of Apples

**Ferrier of Souls: Master of Tides**

**Chapter 3: A Myth of Apples**

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, the Pirates of the Caribbean do not belong to me; the whole franchise belongs to Disney, Ted Elliot, and Terry Rossio. Without intending any copyright infringement for any sort of profit, I am "borrowing" the characters for my little story. Please, please, please don't sue me. Thank you.

**Mythology Disclaimer**: Most of this chapter is made of bits and pieces from varying myths and folklore across the globe. I do not own any of these tales per say, but the way I string them together is of my own invention. See bottom author's note for more information.

--

"Well…" Sole licked his lips as he began to weave his tale. "I know a story of apples."

"Apples?" Turner smiled recalling Barbossa's odd obsession with the fruit. "A tale of apples it is, then." It would make for a good distraction.

--

Long, long ago in times of ancient kings and heathen gods, when legends lived and breathed and traditions had yet to be born; a little, almost forgotten god, hardly worshipped and even less praised, created and nursed the orchards of the mightier gods into fruition. Carefully, he cultivated the blossoms until each eternal tree bore a mighty harvest, a harvest any god, big or small, could be proud of. His crowning achievement, in his most humble opinion, was the apple, a glossy and delicious fruit, crunchy and juicy, sometimes red, sometimes green, and rarer still: apples made of gold. The little god was so proud of his golden apples that one day he puffed up his chest and decided to present them to the assembly of heathen gods, the gods that mankind knew by name.

"Behold, the golden apple," he squeaked out in his soft, tenor voice from a corner of the assembly's spacious white room, hoping and praying that the gods would notice his pride and joy.

But the gods ignored him. He was nothing to them, just a laborer, a servant, a slave. Even the little apple felt sorry for him, but he was bound and determined.

So, the little god polished his golden apple until it shone like crystal in the sun. "Behold, the golden apple," he said a little louder, but the other gods continued to ignore him.

At this point, the little god felt a rush of blood filling his face until he was as red as one of his apples. Embarrassed and frustrated, he shouted, "BEHOLD, the golden apple," as he held the little piece of fruit high above his head. A few of the gods turned their heads; a few more began to whisper in annoyed tones. Who was this little god who dared interrupt their caucus? Which nearly invisible deity had the audacity to yell at _them_? Some reached for their weapons, while others began to clench their hands into fists and gnash their teeth. They would show him his place and just where he could put his precious golden apple.

Yet it should also be noted that it is never a good idea to underestimate a god, no matter how insignificant he may seem. For the gods are gods for a reason; they have power not to be reckoned with. So as the pagan gods began to rush at the little god and reach to smash his heart's joy into a thousand pieces, the little gardener god's eyes squeezed into narrow squints and he spoke with a wrath, "Behold, the apple of mine eye, behold the cure and curse of god and man, behold that which will make you whole and divided, behold!" As the words spat out his mouth, the golden apple shined brighter than the nearest star and took on the characteristics of the god's blessing and curse. Then, in a burst of hot light radiating from the apple's core, the little god disappeared leaving only the golden apple to fall to the floor with a clank.

Where exactly the little gardener god went, none of the gods knew for sure, but every few centuries a mortal on earth matched the little god's description: lean, wiry, ratty old overalls, a tin pot hat, and a sack over his shoulder containing hundreds of thousands of apple seeds. Sometimes he only planted ordinary apple trees, but on the rarest of occasions this mortal reincarnation would bury a golden apple seed deep into the earth and help it grow into a temptation for both god and man.

As for that golden apple lying on the floor of the assembly room of gods, not a hand touched it, nor paw, nor fist. For it glowed with an unnatural radiance before sinking into the fertile ground of heaven. For one hundred and seven years, that apple slumbered in a dormant state of germination. Then it began to shed its seeds. Then it began to grow.

In those one hundred and seven years, however, the gods noticed a change about them. Around their eyes, small creases began to form. Their ear lobes began to droop and the color in their cheeks began to fade. The blossom of their eternal youth had worn off. It was at that point, the exact moment in fact, when the gods noticed this change that the tree began to grow. For you see, the golden apple would be their curse and salvation. When the tree finally reached its fruition, nine out of ten gods had crooked backs, aching limbs, and cantankerous and senile dispositions. Quite frankly, they were old.

One curious god sane enough to notice the golden apple tree and senile enough to forget the last time a golden apple appeared in their halls plucked one particularly delicious looking apple. When his teeth sunk into the white fruit beneath the golden skin, he found his youth and sanity restored. Amazed, he rushed immediately to the nearest mirror to once again partake in his favorite hobby: admiring himself.

Of course, when you have one god miraculously cured of old age and infirmities running about like a chicken with its head cut off young and beautiful once more, you instantly have ten gods running towards whatever caused the curing craziness. And when you have ten gods rushing about, well then you might as well have a hundred, a thousand, a hundred thousand. Yet the tree did not hold a hundred thousand apples. So the heathen gods temporarily cured from the gardener's curse asked which of them knew how to make things grow. Who would be the best to cultivate an orchard of golden apples now that their little underappreciated gardener was gone? Amongst them, only one had the touch of green about her thumb. Only one had worked a piece of earth before. Thus, the gods called forth Freia to nurture the little apple tree until it once more bore fruit.

In two days' time, several new blossoms budded on the tree due to Freia's diligence and care. The gods that were still feeble and wrinkled started to quarrel over who should be next to eat of the golden fruit. Aphrodite claimed that it was her right to eat next because without beauty she was nothing, and if she was nothing, then man was uninspired and frozen hearted. Balder, who once possessed the undeniable reputation as the most beautiful of the male gods, claimed a similar right except towards the female persuasion. Athena, said once to be wise, debated her right to the fruit so that her wisdom would be restored. Juno waved around her right as a goddess queen, while Mars took out his sword to fight anyone who got in his way. Poor little Freia did not know what to do. Who should have the next slice of fruit? Who deserved it any more than the others? Her duty was to be a gardener, not a decision maker. Thus, she fretted and wrung her hands while the aging gods debated and fought.

If she hadn't been so worried, the sight around her would have made her laugh. Gods who had once been strong were now weakly grabbing for their swords only to find them heavy, much heavier than they could dare lift. Most of the gods and goddesses could hardly bring their weapons off the ground, much less fight with them. The veins in their foreheads would strain, pulsating, as they attempted to lift their swords and daggers. Others, noticing their lack of strength, decided to use their speed and fists to fight off the other gods. Unfortunately, their 'speed' was slower than a tortoise and their 'fists' were about as strong as a newly born kitten's paws.

The only one not clamoring for his or her right to the fruit was Idun, the fair haired goddess of eternal youth. In the one hundred and seven years that had aged the other gods so much, she hadn't aged a day. Sure, she was amused by the antics of her fellow immortals, but otherwise the whole mess did not concern her. Well, it didn't concern her until she saw a tear grace Freia's cheek and heard her peaceful husband searching for his sword instead of his poet's pen. At that point, the whole mess suddenly seemed very much to concern her. Something had to be done, someone had to do something other than fight.

Thus, Idun bumped shoulders and squeezed in-between the aged, fighting bodies as she made her way to the golden apple tree. "Stop," she cried out over the mob. "Stop your bickering and fighting. This will get us nowhere." Some the gods halted and wondered at the goddess before them. She was young, yet she had not been one of the fortunate few to have eaten the fruit two days ago. Simply, she was a conundrum and as such, they listened to her with curious and open ears.

"Freia is a good gardener. Behold her efforts, all of you. She is trying to help you return to your past glory, but you? What are you doing? You're grabbling and cursing and distressing the one who is trying to help despite all your selfishness. Fighting is not the answer, it can't be. Now, I seek not the fruit; I seek peace. For these apples holds no value to me, so listen to what I must say. Appoint someone to guard and give these apples like you appointed Freia to nurture and care for them. Appoint someone or else destroy one another elsewhere."

Freia gave her an appreciative smile while the other gods blinked and stared. Appoint someone? Who among them would not selfishly abuse the guardianship of the apples to hoard them all for themselves? Who?

Bragi, the old god of poetry, called out in his feeble voice, "I nominate Idun." Athena nodded in agreement and seconded the nomination. No one else had seen the bickering as useless. Idun, with her uncursed eternal youth, was the perfect candidate. When called forth to a vote, all but two or three gods in the assembly agreed that Idun should be appointed into the position. And of course the two or three gods in disagreement all selfishly wanted the apples for themselves or liked war and discord too much to agree to a democracy. Hence, the majority ignored their votes; and Freia and Idun became the respective nurturer and custodian of the golden apples in the realms of the gods.

As time wore on, both god and man valued and treasured and coveted the golden apples in heaven and on earth. Perhaps you've heard some of the more recent stories.

Atlanta, a famous sprinter, lost a race to her suitor Hippomenes because he tossed three golden apples on the race track in order to distract her.

At the marriage reception of Peleus and Thetis, the gods rejoiced and celebrated until the uninvited Discordia threw into the middle of the celebration a golden apple with a note attached: "to the fairest one." Aphrodite, Athena, and Hera each fought claiming the apple for themselves. Paris, a Trojan prince, was made a judge and picked Aphrodite. For his choice, Aphrodite gave him the love of Helen…which eventually led to the Trojan War.

In the north, kings kept golden apple trees especially to show off their status and wealth. Yet one Serbian king's tree attracted nine mystical peahens which ate the golden apples at night. The Serbian king's son kept watch one particular night to find out what happened to the golden apples and fell in love with the ninth peahen when she transformed into a beautiful woman. In another northern kingdom, golden apples were eaten by firebirds, whose capture brought blessings and doom to the captors.

Thus, over the ages, golden apples have been highly valued just as the little gardener god originally intended. Behold the golden apples. They were both the curse and blessing to all who knew, used, and ate them. Some heroes tried to steal them from the gods as mighty deeds. Some mortal kings kept their trees guarded for they were the kingdom's only cash crop. As for the gods, they valued the caretaker and guardian of the golden apples knowing that without their help, their eternal youth would wane. Only the trickster god Loki is said not to care for the rich fruit for he can change his appearance at the blink of an eye to display his eternal youth and vigor. Only Loki spurns the fruit…

--

Above deck a scream was heard, a splash, and silence. When his fellow sailors looked over the railing to find him, all they saw was the eternal undead sea. There was no sign other than his absence on the ship that there was a man overboard. Even his scream started to seem like a dream.

--

**Author's Glossary – In Order of Appearance**

_Little gardener god_: my own invention although his description I stole from John Chapman aka Johnny Appleseed

_Freia_: Norse goddess, cultivator of the golden apples

_Aphrodite_: Greek goddess of love

_Balder_: Norse god, pretty much well liked by everyone & the most beautiful male god

_Athena_: Greek goddess of wisdom

_Juno_: Roman goddess, Jupiter's wife, Queen of the Gods

_Mars_: Roman god of war

_Idun:_ Norse goddess of eternal youth and custodian of the golden apples of youth

_Bragi:_Idun's husband, Norse god of poetry

_Atlanta:_ Greek huntress known for her incredible speed; she would only marry the man who could beat her in a race

_Peleus_: Greek prince

_Thetis:_ Greek sea-nymph

_Discordia_: Roman goddess of strife

_Hera_: Greek goddess, Zeus's wife, Queen of the Gods

_Paris_: a pretty boy and Trojan Prince

_Helen_: a pretty girl with the face that launched a thousand ships, wife of Sparta's king Menelaus

_Peahen_s: female equivalent to a peacock…story from Bulgarian folktale

_Firebirds_: birds with fiery plumage…story from Russian folktale

_Loki_: Norse trickster god and shape shifter

--

**Author's Note**: Finally an update! Sorry it took so long; classes and volunteering took up a lot of my time this week. Hopefully, you guys like the chapter. Cheers!


	4. Chapter 4: Men Overboard

**Ferrier of Souls: Master of Tides**

**Chapter 4: Men Overboard**

**Disclaimer**: Nope, I still don't own the Pirate of the Caribbean.

--

_Elizabeth recognized one of the men in the boats of the dead. "It's my father, we're back!" she said excitedly as her whole face lit up with joy, not realizing the oddness of it all, not realizing that on the other side of the horizon boats just don't float in formation out in the middle of the ocean. Ships might, one dingy might, but not the thousand of the little boats they were seeing now, each with an eerie glowing lantern lighting their way. "Father!" she shouted, trying to get his attention._

_Jack softly said what every man on the ship already knew. "Listen," he spoke sternly as he gripped her shoulder, "We're not back." Elizabeth, with a sickening realization, comprehended instantly that what he said was true and William's heart was breaking for her as she, horrified, began to gasp, "No, no."_

"_Elizabeth?" Weatherby Swann squinted at his daughter on the ship as if in a daze. "Are you dead?"_

"_No!" she cried out._

_William reached out to comfort her, but she was already stepping away from him, moving along the railing of the Black Pearl to keep pace with her father's smaller boat floating below._

_Weatherby nodded understanding something his daughter could not, "I think I am." In his trance-like state, he told his daughter in ambiguous terms how he had come to be sitting in that boat, dead; but she couldn't accept his fate. They were alive and returning to the world of the living; he could come too. _

"_Come aboard!" she shouted to her father. "Cast out a line!" she yelled to the crew, but they were too slow. Her father's boat was starting to drift away. So she yanked the rope from the crewman's hands and tossed it into her father's boat, if only he would grab it. "Take the line," she ordered as her voice raised an octave._

"_I'm so proud of you, Elizabeth."_

_The rope was slipping from her father's boat. It was as if he didn't even see it. "The line!" She was panicking now. "Catch the line!" But the man ignored her pleas and the rope slipped into the dark waters._

_Her father smiled a goodbye as she rushed to the aft of the Black Pearl, past the riggings to the final bit of railing. "Father! Come back with us!" she wailed. "Please!" _

"_I'll give your love to your mother." His last words and Elizabeth did not want to hear them._

"_She must not leave de ship!" Tia Dalma shouted to the crew and William was the first to set off running. Every fiber of Elizabeth's being was willing to go overboard, willing to catch her father back. William had to use all his strength to pull her back into the Pearl before she collapsed in sobs in his crest. _

_As they continued to watch the boats pass by the Pearl, Tia Dalma's words continued to echo through William's mind, "She must not leave de ship!" Yet he couldn't help but wonder—what if she had?_

_--_

Captain Turner had heard the sailor's scream from below deck before the eerie silence penetrated every nook and cranny of the Flying Dutchman. Who had made it? What happened? Above deck, he could hear boats slamming against the planks, rushing towards the railings. As he dashed up the stairs, his ears expected to hear those fateful words "Man Overboard!" and the efforts of his men to retrieve their lost comrade, but when he reached the deck his ears had yet to hear the call. His men were just standing there, looking over the rails for any sign of a man.

"Mose," the captain said curtly. "What happened here?"

"No one knows, Capt'n. We all heard a mighty yell and a splash, but after that there was nothing. No trace to be found. No one even knows who fell or which side he fell from."

Turner scratched his head, "What a lot of help you lot are," he mumbled. He walked over to the starboard side where the majority of his men were still standing searching the waves. "No sign?"

A couple of sailors answered in the negative while the others remained silent. First the crashing about and now this. Coincidence? The Captain thought not. "Jacobs, take a head count. I wanna know whom we have missing."

"Aye, Capt'n."

"Foreman, Cassidy, keep a weathered eye out on the sea. You see man or beast, you give the alarm. Understand?"

"Aye, aye, Capt'n," they both solemnly replied.

"As for the rest of ye, stay away from the rails if you can and get back to work. We have souls to ferry!"

--

As his crew slowly migrated away from the rails, the captain went to his helmsman. Since Wyvern had not spoken a word in the last eight months, the captain had come to depend more and more on his father for old sea tales.

"Well, what do you make of it?" he asked Bootstrap. Between any other two men, one may have given a prologue to such a question, but between these two there was no need for such an introduction.

"Strange, I'd say, unnatural," his father returned with a slight rasp.

"Supernatural?"

"Aye, more than probable."

Both recalled how the last supernatural occurrence changed their lives and not for the better. At least then they had figured out what was haunting the ship, but now? It was just one odd event after another. The worst was the familiar off balanced feeling in the Turners' guts. The captain especially felt it gnawing away at him. It was the twinge that something wasn't right, something he couldn't name that nevertheless wanted to harm his ship and crew. It wasn't a particular feeling he favored.

"Any ideas what might be causing all this nonsense?"

"Wish I did, son, but these be new waters for me. Not enough information to pinpoint anything. Even the men are keeping their thoughts to themselves."

William nodded somberly. Perhaps even tongue-less Wyvern would be more help after all.

--

In his calloused hands, the captain carried his ship's log and a quill. Wyvern had a child's education; he could read and write a bit. Perhaps if he asked the right questions, the questions that had been running through his head for the past hour, then perhaps he just might get some answers.

The light was getting dimmer as Turner trespassed into the lowest hold of the ship. Moss and mildew grew on the dark wet planks. A few undead rats scurried past his feet and the smell alone made his stomach turn. Wyvern's home and solitude had become darker: the very bowels of the Flying Dutchman.

"Wyvern."

Too yellow jaundiced eyes peered out from the bleak darkness. Somehow the room seemed colder and more forlorn than the last time the captain had stepped down here. In a corner, Turner could even smell old blood rotting through the wood.

The captain put the inked quill and log in Wyvern's arthritic and gnarled hands. Since his companion could not talk, he skipped the pleasantries. "What happens when a man goes overboard?"

--

"Capt'n," Jacobs called Captain Turner over once he returned to the upper deck. "It wasn't just one man, sir."

"What?" the captain blinked a few times still contemplating the words the old man had written in his log.

Jacobs swallowed. "The man overboard, sir. It wasn't just _a _man; twere three."

Captain Turner furrowed his brow. Three?

"Cobbler, Dutch, and Yates, Capt'n. Cobbler hasn't been seen since yesterday. Dutch never showed for lunch and Yates was swabbing the deck when the scream happened. The men that were on deck think it were Yates who screamed, sir. He was there one second, gone the next."

"Anyone see anything? Anything at all?" How could two of his men have been missing for so long without anyone noticing, let alone a third?

"No, sir."

"What do they think happened?"

"Some think Yates just fell in, sir. As for the others, no one knows nothing."

Think, Turner, think. Surely there is more to the story than just this. "Where was Yates swabbing?"

"Over there, Capt'n, middeck next to the railing," Jacobs pointed starboards before whispering less confidently, "The waves have been a bit choppy lately, sir, and the deck _was_ being swabbed."

"Yes, thank you, Jacobs." Captain Turner walked slowly to the presumed place of Yates' dive. Nothing indicated foul play. Maybe he did just slip. Turner gripped the rail and stared out into the ocean. Foreman and Cassidy hadn't seen hide nor hair of Yates since he fell. Turner rubbed his thumbs against the wood trying to think. Nothing was making any sense.

It was at that moment that Captain Turner felt something. He looked down at the railing and saw a bit of nail head askew in the wood. His eyebrows furrowed as he bent down for a closer look. Yet it wasn't the metal that concerned him. What concerned the captain was the bit of netting that had snagged on the nail head. The coarse threads did not belong on his ship, and especially did not belong anywhere near where Yates was supposed to have slipped. So much for the accident theory. Netting threads suggested a net and a net suggested foul play.

Once more Turner's thoughts returned to Wyvern's cryptic scribbles in his captain log:

MaN OveRbord An mAn Is Ded—bEckOn RAN aN sHe Will cOmE.


	5. Chapter 5: Threads

**Ferrier of Souls: Master of Tides**

**Chapter 5: **Threads

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, the Pirates of the Caribbean do not belong to me; the whole franchise belongs to Disney, Ted Elliot, and Terry Rossio. Without intending any copyright infringement for any sort of profit, I am "borrowing" the characters for my little story. Please, please, please don't sue me. Thank you.

**Story references:** Ferrier of Souls Ch. 6: Haunted Dreams

--

Captain's Log

9 years, 7 months, 23 days, 14 hours

Every hour is an eternity, but every hour that passes is an eternity closer to her.

I want to know what the bloody hell is going on. There is…_something_ out there, something I cannot name and I hate it. I loathe it.

This something, whatever it is, is stealing my men to watery graves. Sometimes there is a scream, a shout, a yell—something to indicate one is being caught and taken to drown in these dark waters; sometimes there is no sound at all. In total, we've lost four men: Cobbler, Dutch, Yates, and Smith.

Smith was our latest in disappearances. He served this ship for five decades and with his terrified scream half an hour ago half the crew ran to protect him, but he was already gone. By the time anyone reached where he was last seen, his voice had already been stifled. Too many men have disappeared, vanished. No one knows exactly what happens when one of us touches the sea's skin and plunges deep into the abyss of waves. We just know that once you leave the Flying Dutchman, you're gone—silenced forever.

My men are scared. They won't say it out aloud, but the fear has reached their eyes once again and they speak in whispers. Their fear of death and their greater phobia of fates worse than death are just beginning to take their hold. The younger servers shake while the ones who have seen the most pale with bloodshot eyes. No one can rest because no one knows who will be next.

There was no pattern as to their ages, the ones who disappeared; and they weren't even friends. Personally, I think whatever is in the water just grabs what it can.

For you see, I found netting threads on the railing. I don't want to alarm my crew or passengers any more than they already are, but these threads are like nothing I have ever seen. I know how mad it sounds, but I feel like they are immortal threads. Whenever I touch them, rub them against my forefinger and thumb I am reminded of the immortals' chamber where I was charged with my eternal duties. There was a feeling in the air, a charge and pulse of life suspended. The pagan gods had that charge radiating off them like lightning in a storm before it strikes and now these threads emit the same pulse.

Whatever it is that be in these eternal waters shaking the Flying Dutchman and stealing my crew, it isn't dead or undead. If these threads are any indication at all, then it is some immortal—an immortal that wants to harm this ship.

--

Author's Note: Yep, I know it's short, but I just can't image Captain Turner sitting down for a very long time to write when his ship is in danger. Anyway, reviews, flames, and constructive criticism are always welcomed. Cheers!


	6. Chapter 6: Ran

**Ferrier of Souls: Master of Tides**

**Chapter 6: **Ran

**Disclaimer**: I do not own the Pirates of the Caribbean. I just borrow Will and Elizabeth for my own entertainment. Please no suing.

**Author's Note: **I dedicate this chapter to oh-you-pretty-things for inadvertently reminding me that I needed to get a new chapter written.

--

Two hands the color of sea foam and sea weed lifted two arms out of the eternal ocean of the dead. Soon there followed two shoulders and a head and then a body. Hanging on to the wooden rungs of the plank ladder on the starboard side of the ship, a woman was emerging from the sea ready to catch her next prey.

--

The captain of that ship stood by the helm, surveying all the activities of his men. If any got too close to the rail, he would shout and yell. Captain Turner was not going to lose any more of his men. Not today, not tomorrow, not any day.

As he watched, however, he felt three taps on his shoulder. Sole had ventured above deck and behind him was the old man. As Sole was trying to politely address their captain, the old man was more direct, "We require a word."

Keeping one eye on the activities of his men, Turner folded his arms. "And what word might that be?" The passengers should have said below deck where it was safe. Above deck, he had little patience for them.

"Don't you be cocky, boy," the old man began to grumble and chide.

He would have continued too with his lecture had it not been for Sole, who covered his mouth rather quickly. "What Mr. Navyk means to say, sir," he glared at the old grouch, "is that we heard you were looking for answers, rumors, anything as to what's been going on. We thought we could help."

They had his attention. "You know what's going on?"

"Well, sir, maybe. Ya see we, that is Mr. Navyk and myself, know a little here and there. Mr. Navyk has all his books and I've heard a lot of stories in taverns. We just thought we'd offer our services, sir. Ya know, least we could do an' all." Once he'd said his piece, Sole let go of Mr. Navyk's mouth.

Turner rubbed his chin as he thought about their offer. None of his crew knew anything, except perhaps for Wyvern, but Wyvern's cryptic note only continued to burn through his head. It didn't make any sense. Perhaps, these two were right; a fresh pair of eyes and ears might just do the trick to figuring it out.

From his coat pocket, Turner pulled out a torn page and two twine threads. Staring at them for a moment in his own hands, he handed them over to his passengers. "What can you tell me about these?"

Sole unfolded the torn page and read aloud the nearly illegible words, "Man overboard and man is dead; beckon Ran and she will come." His face screwed up into a scrunch as he tried to think it through. He had heard of Ran before, but where? Where?

--

"Capt'n! Capt'n!" Mose's voice came out in a squeak. "Somethin' in the water, Capt'n!"

Turner sharply turned and left the two passengers at the helm as he ran towards Mose. Whatever it was might just show itself. "Where?"

"There Capt'n!" Mose pointed toward the starboard rail. "Somethin' hit the water hard. A plunking sort of splash, Capt'n."

Turner took a deep breath and then slowly took two steps closer to the rail. All the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood straight up. He gulped in his air as he carefully peered over the rail.

Nothing. Nothing was in the water now or if something was in the water it was deep below the surface, too deep to see. He could not distinguish anything except waves and water. The breath he had not realized he had been holding let itself out as his shoulders relaxed. For now the danger was at bay.

As he turned around with a wearied smile to inform his crew it was a false alarm, however, something grabbed his ankle. He had looked in the water but not on the side of the boat. Whatever it was, it gripped his ankle and started to yank. He looked down. The captain let out a frightful yelp as a strong hand jerked him off his feet. It began to drag him to the very edge of the ship.

"Help!" he cried out.

"Capt'n!" yelled Mose and a few other sailors. They all rushed grabbing whatever part of the captain they could. Some gripped his shoulders, others his arms. But the captain was still being pulled. His feet were already over the edge.

"Get me aboard!" he ordered as he kicked hard.

The men pulled with all their might, but their captain was still slipping through their fingers. He was still being pulled overboard. "Capt'n, hang on!" Mose yelped. They were losing him.

Turner was covered in sweat. He looked down at the culprit grabbing his foot and gave a mighty kick until he hit something, a head perhaps. Immediately, they all heard a hiss, a hiss that could make any man's blood run cold, but in that moment the strong hand and whatever was attached to that hand let go. The men pulled their captain back into the ship and away from the railing. That was too close.

Turner wiped his face with his sleeve and gruffly thanked his crew before brushing himself off. It had been too close; she had been too close.

"Sole." The captain looked towards his two passengers near the helm. Sole was pale. Navyk slightly smirked. "Navyk." Turner squinted his eyes at the old man. "What do you two know?"

--

By the helm, yet away from the railings, Captain Turner discussed what he had seen in soft words as Sole and Navyk listened intently.

"It was a woman, or something that looked feminine enough. From what I could see, her skin was the color of the sea—greens, blues, all swirled together—and where her ears shoulda been, there were gills. She also had this sort of murky, black hair and even blacker nails. And her mouth was full of teeth, like a shark, just rows and rows of teeth."

"And she only held you with one hand?" Navyk asked snidely.

"Yes, old man." Turner grunted.

"Oh, call me Cyrus," the Navyk teased.

"Her other hand held a net, _old man_," he reported before mumbling, "which I wish she'd use on you."

"No need mutter, boy, I may be old, but I have perfect hearing. Now, you say she had a net."

"Arg!" grumbled Turner as he threw his hands in the air. This was getting them nowhere. Navyk was just patronizing him when he should be helping him. Didn't he know they were all in danger here? Didn't he know who the captain was?

"Sir?" Sole quietly squeaked as he laid his downcast eyes on the torn scrap of paper. "Sir, it sounds like Ran."

"Ran?" The captain turned his attention on the younger passenger. "And who might 'Ran' be?"

"A sea goddess, sir. In this one tavern up north, I heard some Norwegian sailors talking about her. They said she sinks ships on a whim and captures drowned sailors in her nets to take to her underwater kingdom—a kingdom of the drowned and the damned. Like the paper says, if the men go overboard, they're dead...they belong to her."

Turner stared at the scrap of paper torn from his log. What Sole said made sense, the first decent piece of sense in this whole convoluted mystery. Yet, he couldn't help but wonder at the other words written in the childish scrawl: beckon Ran and she will come. Who among his crew or passengers beckoned the sea goddess to come after their ship; who had beckoned Ran?

--

**Author's Note:** Ta da! A new lovely chapter for you lovely people reading! Thank you all for the reviews and general comments. Feel free to continue reviewing, flaming, and criticizing constructively. I love hearing what ya'll think. Cheers!


	7. Chapter 7: Night Terrors

**Ferrier of Souls: Master of Tides**

**Chapter 7:** Daydreams and Night Terrors

**Disclaimer**: I do not own the Pirates of the Caribbean. I just borrow Will and Elizabeth for my own entertainment. Please no suing.

**Author's Note**: Okay, so who here thinks my writing has been a bit off for the last couple of chapters? --raises hand-- Yeah, me too. Hopefully, this chappie is better. Cheers all!

--

He sighed. His ankle still hurt from the death grip of the sea goddess. His men were still scared for their undead lives and his passengers were still huddled together in the little room below deck—scared. Unfortunately, Navyk had informed them of the dangers surrounding the ship.

How he disliked Navyk! Always undermining, always demeaning. If the captain did not have possession over his wits, he would have thrown Navyk overboard a long time ago. Thus, he sighed and thought. For he was _sane_ and no sane captain charged with the duties of ferrying the dead would throw a passenger overboard just to suit a fancy. No, he could only hope the old man was destined for some fiery pit of hell.

Turner took off his boots and rubbed his sore ankle. It was a bit inflamed and bruised around the edges, but should be fine by the morrow. Once more Turner sighed.

"Will?" a soft feminine voice whispered.

Captain Turner blinked and then glanced around his quarters. No one was in the room. No one was at the door. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. What sort of mess was he turning into? To top everything off, he was hearing things. Great, just great. Could this day get any worse?

"Will!" the voice was a little more insistent.

Where the voice was coming from though, Captain Turner had not a clue. He rose from his chair and started to really look around his quarters…thoroughly. He checked behind the curtains and beneath chair cushions. No one was under his bed or desk. He pulled back his closet door and peered inside. Again, nothing and no one. He grunted.

"William Turner!"

"What?!" he answered the voice from nowhere in frustration.

"Concentrate."

The voice wanted him to concentrate. Concentrate on what? It was a voice! No body, no head, it was just a noise…a noise that probably should not be listened to. Turner frowned and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and began to count to ten. Maybe the voice would go away.

"There isn't much time, idiot. Your wife has paid dearly for this; now open your damned eyes!"

At the mention of Elizabeth, Will's eyes immediately snapped open. "Eliza…" his lips began to whisper. Could he dare to hope? Immediately, his eyes searched every nook and every cranny trying to find that voice. There in a corner, he saw a faint glow, a soft ball of light the size of a candle flame.

"There you go, William, concentrate." The voice still had its harsh edge, but he did not mind so much. Staring at the hazy glow, he squinted and began to concentrate.

The ball of light started to grow and morph. It stretched and thinned. Two forms within the shifting ball of light were sitting like the Indians in the East ready to hypnotize a deadly cobra. Their fingers were intertwined and their eyes were closed. Distinctions gradually clarified within their hazy shapes, stretching and bulging, as he concentrated with all his heart until he could make out their feminine attributes beneath thin garments. While the women remained somewhat translucent, Will's eyes honed in the one not talking, the one with the messy blond hair: Elizabeth.

She was dressed in clothes befitting a pirate king. No less than three weapons were belted to her thin waist as she wore a rich array of Caribbean and Chinese attire. Yet, as Turner drunk the sight of her in, he noticed on her slender arm was a blood soaked bandage and her face was sporting a black eye. She was his Elizabeth all right.

Turner's eyes then briefly flickered over to the one sitting next to Elizabeth, a companion that seemed to still be speaking, although he heard not the words. She reminded him of Tia Dalma, dressed beautifully and gruesomely in rags. Her arms and face were painted with tattoos as black as her rotting teeth. Words were coming out of her mouth, but Will was not listening to them. Elizabeth was in front of him, his Elizabeth.

The woman, noticing William's inattention, gripped her nails around Elizabeth's bandage and squeezed hard until his pirate king screamed in horrid pain. Suddenly, she had his attention. "Boy, I swear," she hissed as her eyes bore into Turner's, "If you do not listen to Adonia Zola, this girl will continue to feel pain. I do not take de blood sacrifices lightly."

"I'm listening; I'm listening." He could not seem to spit out the words fast enough.

"You are being warned, boy."

"About Ran?" he sighed, "I already know." He didn't want to talk about things already happening. He wanted to hold Elizabeth in his arms. How he longed for her.

"Don't you interrupt Madame Adonia, Mister Will Turner," Adonia Zola practically spat at his feet with her harsh words. "You know nothing. Ran is only de first. They be coming for you, boy. They be coming for their warrior."

The daze wore off. Something Adonia Zola said was important. "Warrior? What?" He reached out for Elizabeth; maybe she could tell him what in all heaven and hell this strange woman was talking about. "What warrior? They who?" But the forms were already starting to disappear. His fingers went right through Elizabeth's hand.

Elizabeth looked up at him. A tear which she refused to let fall held steady guard in her eye. "I'm sorry," she mouthed. "I'm so sorry." Then she was gone.

--

Mose knocked on the door. "Capt'n?" He peeked his head in to see the pitiful sight. Captain Turner was on his knees, barefoot, grasping toward an empty corner. If Mose had been good at reading his captain's defeated shoulders or sagging head, he might have left right then to allow Turner a moment to regroup. Unfortunately, Mose had never been very good at reading body language.

"Capt'n? You're needed above deck."

Turner swallowed and slowly rose to his feet. His skin was ashen. For an agonizing minute, he just stood there. So close and yet so far away. With his chest aching, he grabbed one boot and slipped it one. With his head pounding, he grabbed the other boot and followed Mose up those lonely steps towards the open sea air. A captain had his duties.

--

Dusk was just beginning to touch its pigments on the waves. Pinks and purples dotted the sea and sky. Oranges tore away in strips and clouds of red edged the horizon, but Captain Turner saw none of it. All he could see was Elizabeth's face in his mind's eye. The way a wisp of hair fell into her eyes, left untouched, not tucked behind her ear. How her right eye had been puffed up and bruised. It had to have been a recent punch. Then that bloodied bandage on her forearm. It had been a deep cut still spilling drops of her precious blood. A blood sacrifice that woman had called it. Had it been for him?

"Capt'n…Capt'n?" Mose was poking his shoulder and pointing towards the crow nest where a sailor stood poised with a spyglass over one eye and a fearful expression plastered on his face.

Turner shook himself and looked up at their look out. A captain's duties are never done.

"She's on the boat again, Capt'n!" the sailor shouted below. Ran was waiting for her next victim. A blessing and curse.

"Fine!" the captain shouted back. If she wanted to play this game, then so would he. Turner needed something to fill his hands, to fill his mind. Elizabeth was too painful. Ran would have to do. He grabbed a thick piece of rope and began to wrap it around his waist. Now was the time to end this. Once he was secure, he deftly put one end of the rope in Mose's hands.

"Let's just see what our sea goddess has to say for herself," Turner muttered as Mose looked thoroughly confused. Had his captain finally gone crazy? The last time that monster had gotten a hold of him; she nearly tore his leg off. Now he was willingly putting himself at harm's way? As he gripped the rope firmly in his calloused hands and ordered all hands on deck to do the same, Mose thought they were all doomed to die with a captain gone mad.

--

"Stay away from the edge," Captain Turner ordered. "This is between me and her."

He took two bold steps towards the railing. Two steps were close enough for her to see his boots, but far enough away that she would really have to reach to catch him. He watched as her claws stretched to grasp his ankle once more, but her hand was two inches too shy. He heard a hiss. Then her hand reached again and this time he caught it in his own paws.

"Pull men!" Turner shouted.

The sailors did not understand what was going on, but they pulled regardless. Their captain was holding a blue and green arm and pulling said arm and body aboard. Kicking and thrashing quickly ensued. Turner yanked; the sea goddess yanked back. It was a wrestling match worthy of Mount Olympus, a fight worthy of Mars.

Sweat was poring from every pore. His arms were straining just to keep Ran's hand from slipping through his fingers. She was strong, but he had a whole deck full of men pulling him and her aboard. Another hiss and a gnashing of teeth were heard from the side of the ship.

"Heave men! Get this sea witch aboard, now!"

The boat began to rock. Waves started to crash violently against the other side of the ship. The beautiful dusk sky turned into a nightmarish greasy green as thunder clouds began to roll in. Ran was not going to be taken captive easily.

Soon, Captain Turner was slipping. In fact, all the men were slipping. With all the crashing and rocking about, the Flying Dutchman was beginning to tilt at a dangerous angle where the men could not keep their footing. Water poured on the deck in huge waves swabbing the deck under the sailors' feet. Wet and wild, everything was slipping. Turner looked down at the sea goddess causing all this trouble. A hundred sharp, pointed teeth grinned sickeningly back at him. She was sublime in all her fury.

With the wind and water lashing him in the face, Captain Turner yelled, "What do you want? Why are you here?!" He needed answers and he needed them now. If he couldn't get her aboard the ship, then maybe he could get her to tell him who beckoned her. She smiled a tempting smirk. He furrowed his brow and shouted angrily, "Ran, goddess of the drowned, why do you haunt my ship?"

A voice that sounded like a thousand snakes answered seductively, "I sssseek the sssoul of William Turner. He drowned at sssea. He isss a sssoul of mine!"


	8. Chapter 8: The Drowned

**Ferrier of Souls: Master of Tides**

**Chapter 8: **The Drowned

**Disclaimer**: I neither own the Pirates of the Caribbean nor make any money from this fanfiction. This is purely for fun entertainment by a fan. Please don't sue me.

--

"Ran, goddess of the drowned, why do you haunt my ship?"

A voice that sounded like a thousand snakes answered seductively, "I sssseek the sssoul of William Turner. He drowned at sssea. He isss a sssoul of mine!"

--

Will stared hard at the woman-like deity. She seemed to glow with a sickly green hue when she said those words and her inky black hair dripped insidiously with sea water.

"My soul is my own."

"No, William Turner. You are bargained. A life laid into a curse upon the waves. All the gods know you—a ferrier of sssouls. Not to touch, but a sssoul of mine, none the lesssss. Thrice the soulsss of William Turner belong to me."

Thrice? As in three?

Ran smiled a sinister smile as the ship once more rocked at a most dangerous angle. She was pulling them all down into her sea of the damned. The captain would be hers. The ship would be hers and all their souls.

Will left his scar ache, no, not ache per say as much as burn. The sky above turned black. His own eyes changed from the color of good English soil to a shade of lightning. "My soul is mine own, witch! This ship is under my command. You will not prosper here."

The goddess grinned and revealed her hundreds of teeth. "Good. Your powersss progresss. A demi-god will make the war."

The ship rocked back and nearly knocked the very men over who held so tightly onto their captain.

"Your sssoul is not your own, William Turner. The sssouls of your drowned father and ssson are not your own. Beware your words, William Turner. They belong not to your lips but to your mistress of the sea, your mistress of the damned and drowned. Give me your arm and you will see."

With that, Ran snatched Will's forearm with her mighty talons and scraped deep. Four long gashes drew four long stripes of dark clotted blood. The pain seared up Will's arm into his shoulder and from his shoulder up to his eyes. The whites of his eyes glowed, and the power of second sight entered them.

--

_Deep beneath the crushing waves, Turner saw his father writhing in pain and confusion. He was sitting at the bottom of the ocean with several tons of water above his head, wicked water waiting and willing to kill any mortal man. The pain was excruciating and yet he blinked and would have breathed had he been a land-loving mortal instead of the cursed immortal man. One coin from the chest. One simple and cursed coin made from Aztec gold had cursed him for all eternity to wade beneath the ocean in darkness. _

_How Turner could see his father was still a mystery. By logic, there was no light and thus no way to see, yet Turner could see his father as clearly as if they were under the noonday sun. Then he felt it, as if he too were Davy Jones coming to collect a death fearing soul. The tug, a delicious craving entered his belly—a soul to man my ship—a soul who feared. _

_It was all deeply mysterious and yet he understood it. William Turner senior would have died at sea except that he was immortal and Davy Jones got to him first. The drowned and damned man would have belonged to Ran…he did belong to Ran. He had a debt to pay._

--

Turner screamed. The first gash faded and sealed the flesh of his undead forearm. The second gash began to glow—a second sight.

--

_Out of his body, Turner watched as his twin, his past self, was carved into. His heart removed. Water and sea and waves all surged around The Flying Dutchman. He knew what his soul was doing in those brief seconds but he had never seen his body so dead, so lifeless. He had died aboard that ship, he had died beneath the waves of a maelstrom, a sunken ship taking his soul to a watery grave. His first undead breath gasped sea water instead of salty sea air. His lungs had filled with water. In all technicalities, he would have drowned. A drowned man with a debt to pay to Ran._

--

Turner once more yelled until his lungs seared with pain. The second gash sealed and turned a puffy pink like the first as the third gash opened wide with Ran's prophetic poison. Waves of pain crashed from his arm into his head in rhythm with the waves crashing into the sides of his ship.

The men were sweating and trying to hold their balance. Turner sank to knees. Ran gleamed with delight at the look on Turner's face. The third gash would be the worst.

--

_A boy with dark hair and even darker eyes was laughing as he stood on the railing of a magnificent Oriental ship. He balanced one foot in front of the other, walking the railing as if it were the deadly plank. Besmudged and sweaty men looked up from their work to look grimly at the boy. They spoke harshly, but all their eyes were proud of the boy, their boy. _

_He couldn't have yet reached his tenth year, but he had the men's respect. Was he a cabin boy? A stowaway turned ship pet?_

_Turner looked around at the scene. A woman was at the helm, dressed as a Caribbean and Oriental Captain. A strong woman. She too held the respect of the men. Some loathed her. Some even loved her, but all respected her. She was young. Turner squinted. She was blond as only the sea can turn a head blond. She removed her hat to wipe her brow when Turner finally realized it was his Elizabeth, the Pirate King. She was here, close. He wanted to run to her and take her in his arms. Oh, how he had missed her and the things he wanted to say to her were just tripping out his mouth to be but heard. _

_She was beautiful and glorious. She was his Elizabeth, yet she couldn't seem to see him. It was as if he was not there at all, just some apparition haunting her hallowed ship. _

_Turner watched as she smiled and laughed at the boy on the railing. Oh how he envied the boy, the recipient of her smile. _

"_Will," she called lovingly. Could she see him? Did he dare hope? "Will, be careful. Wouldn't want to be falling overboard, now." Turner quickly surveyed her eyes. She was not looking at him at all. She was looking at the boy. Will?_

_For what seemed like hours, Turner waited upon that ship, ready for the vision to end. It was torturous to be there and yet not there. He hated that some whelp received his Elizabeth's attentions when he did not. He abhorred that she wouldn't even look at him. It had been too long. He needed to touch her, to feel the warmth of her skin against him. A nigh decade was too long to wait. _

_The sky grew dark with an approaching storm. Elizabeth ordered her men to man the decks and tie down the necessary ropes and riggings. Will, with his breast swelling with adoration, was so proud of his wife. What a captain she had become. _

_Then a scream emerged from the boy's lips and Turner watched as Elizabeth's confidence quickly transformed into horror. The ship was beginning to rock up and down and side to side and the boy had gone overboard. Slipped overboard is more like. Elizabeth left the helm and raced to the railing which last held the boy. A gruff man tried to hold her back, "We'll get 'em, Capt'n."_

_With every ferocious bone in the Pirate King's body, Elizabeth coldly told the gruff man, "No, I'll get him. He's my son," before she removed her coat and boots and tied a rope around her thin waist to dive in after her only offspring. _

_A son. A SON?! _

_A few minutes of anxious waiting, Turner stared out onto that rough and choppy sea wishing he had been there, wishing he had been the one to dive to the depths of the very ocean that now embraced his wife and child. His boots, however, were rooted to wooden planks beneath his feet. He reached out, but could not move. Turner had to wait as impatiently as he could for any sign of life. A vague dull ache entered his chest. Worry, a father's worry._

_After what seemed like hours, Elizabeth was finally back by the hull of the ship shouting orders. "You blasted, good-for-nothing pirates! Haul me aboard!" A limp body hung by her side. _

_For a full seventy-five pain-staking seconds, the boy did not breathe. Elizabeth blew air into his mouth and thumped his chest willing the water to exit his lungs. He had drowned. The boy, his only heir had drowned. No sooner had Turner learned he was a father than he discovered his son was dead. Dead. Drowned. Damned to Ran. _

"_Dammit Will! You are NOT dying. Not today!" Tears mixed with salt water streamed down the Pirate King's beautiful face. She once more put her lips to her son's and tried to fill his lungs with air. Once more she thumped his tiny chest. _

_One cough of water was enough. One simple and joyful cough emerged from the boy…from his son's throat as water gushed out. His son lived. _

_A third William Turner to live, a third Will Turner to owe a debt to Ran._

--

Captain Turner gasped as tears streamed down his face. The pain was too much, too hard. The third gash sealed. Only one remained.

--

_A mighty battlefield of ships and soldiers fought in endless battle. Some died. Others rose in their comrade's place. The battlefield was bloody and smelled of rotting flesh and fish. Men with amputated limbs spilled their sticky blood across the battlefield's barren lands and windless seas. Not a side was winning, both sides were in a stagnant losing dilemma. _

_Turner looked down. He was dressed as a proper captain armed for battle. A trident stood by his side. The gashes in his arm were fainted scars. His chest burned as if newly cut. Out of habit, he took a breath and felt a sharp pain in his side. A cracked rib? Maybe two?_

"_Orders, Captain, we need orders." Thousands of sailors were staring at him. Thousands of sailors and hundreds of ships awaited his command. _

"_A debt to pay," Turner heard a feminine voice remind him harshly. "Three debts to pay with your soul. A bargain or a death."_

_-- _

Turner coughed as he felt every inch of his insides churn. He had a son. He yelled a battle cry and seized the sea-witch Ran by the neck. "My soul, my father's soul, my…son…my son's soul is ours and ours alone. We owe no debt to you," he fiercely said.

"But you do, William Turner. All three soulsss are recorded on the logss of debtsss. Your father and you have been paid for…for cursed debt for another, but your son belongsss to me."

"NO!" He gripped her neck harder.

"Yesss!" She smiled superciliously as if telling a child there would be artichokes and lima beans for dinner without any dessert to reconcile the situation.

"Your wife," she spoke past the choking pain, "Beloved as she is, bargained your soul for her son's. You belong to me."

Turner gulped. Could this be true? Would Elizabeth? Elizabeth would. He saw the horror and terror in her face. She would have done anything to spare the boy. A pirate, through and through…and yet she was still his Elizabeth. She bore him a son.

"My soul belongs to the undead waves. I ferry souls. You said it yourself, I'm meant to remain untouched."

The deity grimaced. "Which is why I offer you a bargain. In three days time the Valkyries will visit your ship. If you leave with them, I will consssider your son's debt paid. Otherwise, I will collect hiss sssoul instead of your own. A bargain, William Turner, or a death."

With those words, the super strong deity pulled back Captain Turner's fingers from her throat and slipped back into those eternal waves beneath The Flying Dutchman.

The sky above cleared and all the men feared for the future. Valkyries, a bargain, and/or a death. Three days were just enough to scare an undead sailor to wish for death.


End file.
